Two Poems

Andy Brumer

Donald Trump's Miserable Golf Swing

Behold Donald’s

    one

of the worst

    golf

swings

anyone has

    ever seen.

 

Why should that

   surprise us?

 

It takes

intelligence

   and

talent

   and

good will

  and inwardness

  to

swing

a golf club

 well.

 

Does

Trump possess

  any of

this?

 

Did he

ever even rent

 one ?

 

It’s a miracle the golf

   club

      doesn’t fly out

   of his miserable

     hands

when he swings,

     as what object

     would want this

disease of humanity

    holding on to it?

 

No sentient

   creation

   tagged

   a

human being

   would.

 

How much misery

    can one creep

    inflict

    on the essence of

    golf’s goodness,

 

the game the quiet

shepherds

 

found

by tapping rocks

  with sticks

  into sounds

to

  herd

  their

sheep

  into “baas”

  of

  pure

 

leisure?

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Green-eyed Lindsay Graham

Lindsay Graham-cracker

you got your white ass honkey

back against the wall.

 

Like pulling the petals off a

child’s daisy

one minute you love Trump

the next you dump 

him. Out of

what crayon does

this peculiarity 

out of the

human hue range

blow?

 

From your 

bent brain

broken

as a rain drop

dying into

a puddle?

 

Of course you acquitted Trump,

what else would a heap

of dumb

 

do?

 

Then

two days later

with this “verdict”

still reeking  

with the stench

of a stick

plunged by 

a chimpanzee

into a dung 

hole,

 

you had the nerve to say,

“I’m going down to Florida

to play some golf

with Donald,” 

 

adding as you left

the elevator,

 

“Lara Trump, keep your eye on her,

she’s the future of the Republican Party”?

 

Of course there’s no big balloons

no wine or beer

no dancing bears where

the only rhythm common to this group

is the thump of

the schedule of investments

that roll itself

into dividends. 

 

Who the hell is Lara

Trump

anyway?

 

She’s no niece

Mary, of course,

the farthest on

that family’s apexed point

toward

decency

pivoting

in the

direction of someone 

who might actually

do some good 

 

like Frost’s horse in the woods at night

 

in a snow that falls

down rays of

of starlight

translucently

illuminating

the way

toward inwardness

and

virtue. 

 

Anyway, Graham cracker,

your creepy carapace 

your W.C. Fields

puffy drunk face

whose eyes

don’t search for wisdom

but only the safe steps of self

preservation 

 

down which you

walk incognito

your murky

shame

afraid only

of forgiveness.